


Hold Her Tight (And Don't Let Go)

by Englass



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, How do people tag?, I find it so hard, I'm Bad At Tagging, John's just a bit insane okay?, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Possessive Behavior, Soft John Seed, Yandere, and i hate dialogue, and i hate summaries, i'm so bad at them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englass/pseuds/Englass
Summary: Rook's been captured, and sadly she's not in a position to get away.Especially, if John has anything to say about it.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, John Seed/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 64





	Hold Her Tight (And Don't Let Go)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dearly_Divided](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dearly_Divided/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for the lovely @Dearly_Divided. Don't worry though, I did get this to them before Christmas; I'm just terrible at uploading stuff onto this site 😅

There is a hush over the land, a chilled lull that hints to the ending autumn just as much as it does the falling night. Early rays of tired light making the still dark sky blush with the faintest dusting of pink, colours catching in the reflection of crystal-clear dew drops as the night steadily inches towards the dawn. A new day quite literally on the horizon.

It’s peaceful, the yawning night slowly being sung to sleep by the bird’s melodic hymns, as many continue to wander dreamily within the landscape of their own minds. Unconcerned and unaware of the many battles that will no doubt erupt once the dawn finally breaks and this day officially begins; the same as any other, yet different nonetheless.

Deputy Rook knows this routine better than any; always the first to rise, to shed and spill blood in the name of her chosen faction – to drown her conscious deep below the water’s surface as she fights in the name of a tarnished and frail justice, morals abandoned under the bodies she recklessly leaves behind – and the last to put her rifle down and let the temptations of sleep snare her into a fitful slumber. Yes, Rook knows her daily routine rather well.

Yet the days are still different, and on those rare days where the mould has been broken Rook would typically revel in the change of pace. Would let herself get lost in empty thoughts as the morning fog rolled in, taking in the sights of ghostly meadows and mist-drowned woodland as she slipped free from the collar of her obligations. The world an enclosure where she was the only occupant; a beautifully lonely solitude.

Today, however, is far from such a day.

There is a tension in the air; a wire worn thin by bitter exchanges and pulled too tight by vengeful encounters. Fear turned aggressive on the precipice of its snap, battlefield dusted as the two that tug and stress the wire to its fullest foam and snap like rabid dogs. Cruel jabs and nasty words constantly exchanged like devoted love letters over shifting radio waves.

Really if she was in a better condition Rook would continue this little game of theirs, reflecting every petty snark he threw at her right back like an ever-present mirror; would help to demolish this suffocating pressure and that infernal wire that strangles the Valley with a flourish. Or maybe even a good punch to the bastard’s face. That would be something; but sadly, you can’t have everything.

Especially when you are in Rook’s position.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, a sea of troubled blue staring intently at the injured deputy. Gaze occasionally flicking down to her exposed bandages, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. “You’ve been out for a while now…”

Rook shifts uncomfortably, hand pressed loosely over her side as she weakly moves up the bed and away from John. Jaw aching as she grits her teeth against the sharp twist in her side at every wrong move or too deep a breath.

At her silence John swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. He hesitates, lets the silence carry as one of his hands comes up to lay habitually against his chest, absently smoothing over the lettering of his displayed sin. A soft concern lighting his ocean eyes, strangely aglow under the lamplight.

“I was honestly starting to fear the worst. You should really take better care of yourself, Deputy.”

Despite his touching, if not completely _unexpected_ , worry Rook finds it easier to keep quiet. To rebel by denying him her words and, by extension, her compliance.

Admittedly, a part of her wants to question him – ask why she’s here, in his home and a bed, instead of incarcerated within his bunker, but she refrains. The fear of his answer holds her tongue; keeps the bravado muzzled and the curiosity leashed. Her self-preservation a blaring warning that on this occasion she cannot afford to ignore or misread.

John can be a loose cannon, unpredictable at the best of times; feathers easily ruffled and fangs quickly bared; and Rook is vulnerable, at his _mercy_ even. It’s a match made in hell; a pairing far out of her favour; and sadly, this time there’s no wheelie-chair to be her saviour, nor no gun-wielding priest to come to her rescue.

She’d be surprised if anyone thought she was still alive after what had happened; she could only imagine the wreckage that had become of her plane after that crash. Hell, even _she_ was surprised she was still alive; impalement was definitely not the way she envisioned dying, least of all to a piece of stray shrapnel, let her tell you that.

Although, she guessed she had John to thank for not making that a reality. For what it was worth anyway.

A sigh taps at the tension, the soft sound of shifting fabric trailing it as The Baptist shifts; turns to better face her and move a sly inch closer. Free hand gripping at the duvet beside her leg, just shy of touching her through the cover. Although she has no doubt that he’s likely considering it anyway.

“You know, this could have easily been avoided if you had just taken me up on my offer. If you had just listened to me and put that _filthy_ pride of yours aside then you wouldn’t be here-” his eyes narrow, expression tightening as he amends his words with a strained, but hushed, “you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

For some _bizarre_ and completely _unexplainable_ reason, not at all brought about by past and recent experiences, Rook sincerely doubted that. If it hadn’t of been that plane crash then one of his men would have hurt her instead; shot her like a poor doe during the hunting season no less. Which, considering the way they address and mock her over the radio, is a rather disturbingly accurate way of putting it.

Regardless of his offer, of what he had attempted to try and promise her, Rook didn’t believe for a second that her blood wouldn’t be spilt in some way or another.

She was the enemy – she _is_ the enemy. She needs to _atone_ , as he so likes to continuously remind her. And if she had learnt anything from her last little rendezvous with the man it was that atonement _wasn’t without pain_. She hadn’t _swam_ across that ocean yet; she wasn’t _free_ from the burdens of her apparent _sins_ without braving those dark waters first; without being _courageous_ and _giving_ him that ‘ _yes_ ’ that he so desperately craves and thirsts after.

And she didn’t plan to.

So, forgive her for not exactly having _faith_ in him when he says that she wouldn’t be hurt. When he promises her sweet, pointless _salvation_ all for the measly price of her freedom and subjugation and… and something else she wouldn’t give him.

Rook didn’t trust his words then, didn’t believe them even, and she definitely didn’t trust them now.

John takes a steadying breath, finally giving into the urge to touch her as his hand finds purchase just below her knee. Pressing his weight onto her as he moves closer, swallows and pulls away the hand at his chest to reach over and grab her own smaller hand; the one pressed delicately against her injured side.

Despite Rook’s protest, a ‘don’t you dare’ hissing scathingly between her teeth, the seething threat that it’s intended to be wavers. Her voice weakened by the pain that throbs through her like a second heartbeat; composure fraying under the stress like a noose with too much weight to bear.

John hardly pays her words any attention as he pries her hand away from the bandages as gently as he can, fingers lacing between her own and squeezing. A sweet act of reassurance; a sour display of dominance. A sharp inhale following at the sight of the vivid red that has started to bleed through the once clean bandages again; a muttered beration on his tongue.

The hand at her knee moves, practically skims up her leg until it’s hovering over her side, absently fiddling with the partially unbuttoned shirt that she had woken up in. That he had changed her into while she was out cold; while he took care of her. Pools of ocean blue glazing in contemplation as he eyes the covered wound; critical and thoughtful.

The hand behind her, vainly supporting Rook’s weight and efforts to create some form of distance between the two of them, claws into the sheets; grips them savagely as the anger clashes with fear and festers with audacity. The nerve of this man; what on Earth is he playing at…

“I know you don’t exactly think highly of me, Deputy. That you don’t trust me,” John starts carefully, eyes briefly – shyly meeting Rook’s, “or anything I may say or do for that matter. But I need you to understand just how serious I was being, the last time we spoke. That my _offer_ was serious. I meant what I said, you would be safe here with me, dear. No harm would come to you, I wouldn’t _allow_ for harm to come to you. I wouldn’t…”

There’s a shakiness in his voice, an urgent fragility that has Rook leaning back ever so slightly; brow furrowed and eyes wide.

“I can protect you; I know I can. I can give you a life outside of the _barbarism_ that is your so-called _Resistance_. I could give you anything you ever wanted, anything – name it and it’ll be yours. It’ll be _ours_.” There’s an upturn to his lips, small and hopeful as his eyes sparkle up at her through his lashes, blue impossibly bright and innocent and-

And then it’s gone. Erased by a quick swallow; eyes ducking back down to her bandaged waist with a new veil cast over them. Something indescribable, unreadable shifting the colours of his eyes in ways Rook can’t understand; the lamplight casting shadows that make the ripples in the water of his eyes all the more sinister; all the more focused.

“I know I was perhaps a little… forward in my intentions when I proposed, a little hasty even,” he laughs nervously, almost boyishly, “but I meant it. I would never lie to you about such a thing, darling. When I asked you to be mine, I meant every word. I’d do anything within my power to keep you safe. You have to believe me when I say that.

“You believe me, don’t you, _Eleanor_?”

Rook – Eleanor – doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know _how_ to respond. She knew John to be a bit off the rails, what with the things she’s heard and seen herself, but this… this definitely wasn’t what she expected. She didn’t even know he knew her _name_ , let alone that he was so serious about that deal of his; that poorly described ‘proposal’ as he called it. She thought he was joking, that it was just another ploy to try and lure her in, no matter how stupid it sounded. She thought he was joking…

She wishes he was joking.

Her silence is answer enough and John fidgets, knee coming up onto the bed as his other knee comes over his ankle. The hand playing with the corner of her shirt – _his_ shirt, twisting the fabric anxiously between his fingers.

“I… I don’t understand, dear. I don’t…” There’s a sudden distance in his eyes, a strange vacantness that turns the water darker. Thoughts lost as he searches her; eyes darting between her own before they fall back to her bandages, expression twisting; a realised emotion, an acquired answer, dulling the shine in his vibrant eyes.

“Am I so void of love,” he reaches out then, eyes lost in the ocean of a newfound vulnerability, “am I…,” he hesitates, the pads of his fingers brushing against her skin, lingering over the apple of her cheek, “will I ever be good enough? Would you ever want me?”

The question rings like a bad omen, air bitter as Eleanor stares speechlessly back at him. His hand falling back down to the corner of her shirt as she silently shakes her head at him; a muttered ‘you’re insane’ slipping heavily off her tongue.

“… That’s not a ‘no’.”

 _‘That’s not a’- oh, for fuck sake,_ “Then what the hell do you want me to say?”

John laughs, a broken sound that fractures like glass.

“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to say ‘yes’. I want you to take me up on my offer. I want you to want me; just like I want _you_.”

There’s a weighted pause.

A slow and drawn out: “That’s never going to happen.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” John counters with something soft in his tone; something free and teasing; something _dangerous_. “Tell me, have you ever heard of co-dependency, Deputy? I know our relationship isn’t quite to that degree yet, what with how you _constantly_ refuse my help and affections, but you have to admit it comes awfully close. We both rely on each other so much as it is. Our jobs, our _lives_ , revolve around each other. So why not make it a bit more permanent, hm?

“Take me up on my offer, Eleanor. Accept it, accept _me_ , and I will happily take care of everything. Rely on me, just as much as I rely on you, and I promise that you will never have to raise a weapon again. Depend on me and I promise you that you will be kept safe. _Love me_ , and I swear on God himself that I will do _anything_ for you; _anything_. I vow it to you, love.”

Eleanor can do nothing but stare at him, skin pale in the wake of this warped confession. A moment passing by far quicker than it feels before she tenses, winces at the pain her physical resolve causes, before she replies with a daring, but avoidant, “I will _never_ depend on you for anything.”

“On the contrary, darling,” he says with a blooming smile, “you’re about to depend on me for _everything_. For you see…” he licks his lips, the hand holding hers pressing lightly into the bed, stroking over her pulse point, “I’ve wanted you for a while now. It’s why I made you that offer. Why I asked for you to stay with me, by my side.

“You denied me, yes, but that’s because you couldn’t see. Because you were scared of the truth, of what you would find if you were to stay with me. If you were to stay and explore this _connection_ we have. But now…” he stops fiddling with the corner of the shirt Eleanor’s wearing, fingers gliding sweetly over her bandages with an absent caress, “now I have a way to _make_ you stay.”

Just as dread chills Eleanor’s spine, a question crawling fearfully on her tongue, there’s a striking pressure and she chokes – gasps as John’s palm comes down harsh against her wound, fingers pushing and digging violently into her until it bleeds.

Her hand buckles under her; body falling, back arching on the bed as John rears up and over her, following so his hand keeps pressure against her bleeding wound as she screams. Head thrown back and vision blurred, tears cascading quickly down her cheeks and onto the bed as she frantically grabs and claws at his wrist with her free hand; the other still pinned and helpless against his assault.

Her legs kick out and then seize, the pain paralysing as she wails brokenly into the early morning. It’s sharp and it _burns_ and she desperately wants to curl up into herself, to roll over and huddle into as small a ball as she possibly can to protect herself; but John is _still_ hanging over her. His face right over her own, peppering her wet cheeks with chaste kisses and gentle hums and coos.

The hand pressing into her wound, now covered with the blood that quickly bled through the bandages, pulls away. Stops applying pressure only to stroke lightly over the sullied bandages and reopened wound; rubbing her stomach gently like one would while comforting a sick lover.

It’s a disgusting imitation of intimacy.

“Y-you,” she stutters with a sob, body shivering and stomach twitching as raw ice floods her veins, her teeth bared in a snarling grimace as a vile curse tumbles free; a vain and pitiful act of defiance.

“Oh sweetheart,” John coos airily, cruel and mocking, until a delirious laugh scratches at the edges of his words; an unseen frenzy colouring his eyes and rattling within his voice. A bloody thumb coming to swipe shakily, but affectionately against Eleanor’s tear-stricken cheek; the final jab in this long-played game of theirs, “it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. _I’ve got you_. It’ll hurt for a while – I know, I know; shh, shh – but it’s okay, that’s fine. That’s _good_. It means you can _stay_. It means you can’t get into _trouble_ anymore. It means you’re away from those, those _heathens_ and _blasphemers_.

“It means you’re _mine_.

“Oh, I promise, I am going to take such _good_ _care_ of you, darling. I honestly can’t wait. I am going to be so, so careful with you. I wouldn’t want for you to misbehave and make this wound of yours worse after all, now would I? It would be an awful shame if it wasn’t to heal correctly because of your needless resistance…

“Hm? Now, what is that look for? There’s no need to look so frightened, my darling. You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ll look after you. I’ll take very, _very_ good care of you…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Any kudos or comments are greatly appreciated! 😁💖


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